It’s cold, and I see stars.
Both of these are strange. I’m here at the Mather Campground, Grand Canyon, camping with Mike, my college roommate, up here at 7000 feet near the South Rim. I can’t say it’s completely tranquil; we’re fairly close to the main road, what happens when you don’t make reservations. And the number of stars is decreasing, as the sun gains height – it was maybe 15 when I got up to go to the bathroom 20 minutes ago, now it’s just two and a crescent moon. I’ve been in the city for so long that I don’t even know if the moon is waxing or waning.
The sunrise isn’t that awe inspiring; it’s not like we were camping down on the Colorado or something. And unlike some other groups, I won’t go overboard on wilderness as the superior natural versus the city’s artificial. For one thing, I like mattresses and box springs and radios and hot showers and towels. For another, I’m less than a mile from high-speed Internet access.
What I’m really writing to say is that I’m at peace, with myself, for the first time in a while. On Tuesday I fly back to Chicago. Then I have about a week to get a thesis chapter together. Quite stressful, eh? I mean that I’m not teetering towards destroying myself – by lack of sleep, lack of food, constant despair, other self-harm behaviors. I don’t think I could have said that since early February. Maybe my relationships with others will even reach some sort of normal status ….
It’s not to say that things will succeed automatically, like say any Disney movie. There’s a good chance my thesis will fail. Plus, as much as I’d like to think otherwise, the depression recidivism rates are not low. What’s the choice, though? Like this morning, the sun arises each time – and unless somebody knows about the Rapture and isn’t telling, still will for a while. All I can do is rise and meet it. Though not always literally, like today, I hope it’ll be peaceful for a while.